by Laura Taylor
By nightfall, the entire place would be deserted. And in this part of Scotland, he was sure, the shifters would never be seen again.
Baron watched Nikolai and Tank lead the Noturatii man up the hill, his heart heavy in his chest. Annabelle was still sitting beside Sabine in the grass, the younger woman dead, her body in wolf form.
A tally of the dead was the first order of business, and Baron was grieved to realise that two of his own Den were among them – Nate and Eric, two of the lower ranking wolves. They’d fought bravely, died for their pack, and a funeral would be held for them once they were back at the estate.
One of the Ukrainians was also dead, along with several of the Russians, and Marianne, the alpha from the Norwegian Den.
Fuck, what a mess.
“Get the bodies back to the Manor,” Baron ordered, wishing he could give everyone more time to mourn. “We need to be off this estate as soon as possible. Wash the blood off, pack your things, and be ready to move. Caleb, go get a couple of rubbish bags. Any body parts need to be collected, but the rain will wash the blood away.” The sky had clouded over in the last half an hour, and it wouldn’t be long before they had a downpour.
The shifters began to move reluctantly. The wolves’ bodies were carried reverently, tears flowing, faces grim. The stronger shifters carried the bodies of the remaining Noturatii men, while the weaker ones dragged the dogs over the ground. In less than ten minutes, the entire clearing was empty, blood stains on the grass the only remnant of the brutal battle.
Back at the manor, Eleanor was waiting, and when she heard the news, she closed her eyes and muttered a prayer in Italian. Baron explained what they’d decided about Miller, and she sighed. “The best we can do under the circumstances, I suppose. I don’t like the idea of letting him leave, given that he’s seen our faces, but there’s not much else we can do.”
“Where’s the plane?” Baron asked, knowing there was no way to accommodate this many people at the Lakes District manor.
“At Inverness,” she replied, immediately picking up on his train of thought. “It can be ready to fly this evening.” Baron nodded. That much, at least, would be a relief, to have all the foreign shifters out of Britain and on their way home.
“What about the bodies?” one of the Polish women asked.
“We’ll cremate them, and return the ashes to you,” Caroline answered quickly, appearing at Baron’s side. “We don’t have time to get clearance through customs on such short notice.”
The woman was clearly unhappy with the plan, but she didn’t protest, understanding there was little other option at the moment. She nodded, lips pressed into a tight line, then headed up the stairs to get cleaned up and pack her things.
In less than an hour, everyone due to leave was packed and waiting out the front. “Caroline, Silas, Raniesha, Alistair,” Baron ordered, forcing himself to continue putting aside his own grief until his pack was safe. “You drive them all to the airport, then get back here as fast as possible. We’ll be ready to leave when you get back. And change the licence plates. If the Noturatii tracked one of the vans here, we don’t need them following us all the way back home.”
All of the Den’s vehicles bore fake number plates, and they were changed regularly to minimise the risk of detection. There was a stack of spares hidden in the back of the vans, along with the tools to have the plates swapped in a matter of minutes.
The rest of the shifters were scrambling to pack up the estate, their bags packed, vacuum cleaners humming away as they removed all traces of wolf fur from the carpets. George was in the kitchen with a handful of assistants packing up the last of the food. The bodies were all wrapped and lined up at the door, ready to be transported back to the estate. The rain had started, a heavy downpour that would wipe the last traces of blood from the forest.
Just as the vans were getting ready to leave, Tank and Nikolai arrived back, reporting that the Noturatii man had left with the bodies, as planned. There were two other vehicles aside from the one he had taken, but that was the Noturatii’s problem. The shifters didn’t have time to move them, and if the Noturatii knew where this estate was, there was no point trying to hide them anyway. They were never coming back here – the Densmeet in future years would have to be relocated to another country, since this place was no longer secure.
“I’ll be staying with you,” Eleanor told Baron, waiting by the door. “We have business to discuss before I go back to Italy.”
Baron nodded, not really caring one way or the other. The Councillor was more than capable of looking after herself, and practical enough to know that he had bigger things on his mind.
It was Andre who really had him concerned. During the battle and the clean up, he’d been cool and calm, issuing instructions to the others, checking that nothing was missed, offering words of comfort to those who had lost loved ones.
But Baron had seen the look on his face just after he’d shot the girl, had seen the trembling in his hands and the desolation in his eyes. And it was as clear as day that the girl’s death was affecting him more than he was prepared to admit.
The Council’s assassins were trained to put aside their emotions, to focus on the mission, the bigger picture of protecting their species, to deny even their own conscience if that was the decree of the Council, and he had the utmost admiration for those who volunteered for the role, knowing that their species would never have survived as long as it had without them.
But no one could deny themselves forever, he reasoned. Sooner or later, the life of violence and killing had to catch up with them. One way or another.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Sean watched the vans pull up out the front of the Manor, prepared for a grim greeting. Baron had called him a few hours ago with news of the attack in Scotland, and he’d promptly packed his bags and prepared to leave, knowing they wouldn’t want him sticking around once they arrived.
After the visit from the Noturatii several weeks ago, three mysterious visitors had shown up, two men and a woman who had introduced themselves by showing him that peculiar symbol on their hands that Baron had told him about. Since then, they’d been ghosting around the estate, checking security, guarding the perimeter, but thankfully there had been no further intrusions from the Noturatii, and the three of them were packed and ready to leave as soon as the shifters returned. He’d been given no real explanation on the visitors other than that they were some sort of security force, and while they’d all been perfectly polite during their stay, he found them to be rather intimidating, and he was just as glad to be away from them.
He was right about the grim mood, Sean acknowledged, when Baron got out of the van. A scowl was fixed to the man’s face, and he simply muttered a gruff ‘thank you’ when he saw Sean, handed him an envelope full of cash, and watched as he climbed into his car and drove away. They would be in contact again, when they next required his services, but until then, as far as Sean was concerned, the shifters didn’t exist. He’d never met them, knew nothing of the existence of otherworldly beings right under humanity’s nose, and would give his wife an enthusiastic report about his ‘fishing holiday’ when he got back home. Nothing to see here, folks. Just move along.
Caleb paced the library, surprised that Caroline had called him in for a chat. Baron was busy, organising the grieving Den, planning how the hell they were going to dispose of so many bodies, and he’d rather expected Caroline to have been at his side, juggling the thousand small tasks that were going to keep them both snowed under for days to come. For all that they butted heads at every opportunity, when the shit hit the fan, the pair of them worked together like a well oiled machine. They were both a credit to their Den, and he knew that the rest of the shifters couldn’t have been prouder of their work, the way they held everyone together and overcame the seemingly insurmountable odds that were constantly stacked against them.
So while he knew that Caroline cared deeply about her pack, she rarely showed it in words of sympath
y or compassion, preferring to let her actions speak more clearly about her intentions.
“Let’s talk about the hiker,” she’d said bluntly when Caleb had arrived in the library, and he’d stared at her in surprise. “Thoughts? Feelings? Regrets?” she’d probed with an air of caution, and Caleb had realised that he was being far more transparent about his feelings surrounding the incident than he’d realised. But putting those feelings into words was difficult, pride and guilt and remorse eating away at him.
He should be above this, he scolded himself, as Caroline watched him pace. Baron and Caroline dealt with far worse crises on a regular basis.
“What was I supposed to do?” he asked finally, a harsh edge to his voice. “She was standing in the middle of the forest, watching you all shift and shoot each other. She was a security risk that could have brought down our entire species.”
“What do you think you should have done?” she asked calmly, watching him carefully to see how he reacted.
“I don’t know. Taken her prisoner? But then what? She still knew secrets she wasn’t supposed to know.”
“I’m not trying to interrogate you,” Caroline interrupted, sounding far gentler than he had expected. “This isn’t a trial for a crime. It’s just a discussion about how you’re dealing with what happened.”
“I’m fine,” he snapped, not liking the fact that his doubts and guilt were so exposed.
“That’s what Tank said when he got back from the Noturatii lab,” Caroline pointed out. “And everyone could see, clear as day, that it wasn’t true.”
Tank. Fuck. A higher ranking wolf than Caleb, and he’d fallen to pieces for a while there. Caleb still wasn’t sure of all the details involved, either what he’d been through inside the lab, or what had finally led to him being able to deal with it, but Caroline had a point, he admitted to himself reluctantly. If Tank had moments that were hard to deal with, then was it such a bad thing that Caleb found himself in the same situation?
“So in hindsight,” Caroline asked, repeating her previous question, “given the time and space to think about it clearly, what would you like to have done differently?”
Caleb thought about that, recalled the shock of finding the woman there, the fear that his pack was being slaughtered at that very moment, the knowledge that she couldn’t be allowed to just walk away. “Nothing,” he said finally, sinking into a chair. “I hate what happened. I hate this whole fucking war, and the people who die fighting it, and the people who die without even knowing why. But… given the situation over again, I would have done the same thing. Or maybe even just shot her myself. When I confronted her, I guess I was hoping that I could capture her, take her to you or Baron and let you decide what should be done. But that would be horribly selfish in the end, wouldn’t it? I couldn’t decide what to do on my own, so I cover your hands with her blood, instead of my own.”
Caroline nodded, a slow, thoughtful gesture that showed she understood. “Sometimes we have to make terrible decisions,” she said softly. “And hating those decisions doesn’t mean that we don’t have to make them. And knowing that we have to make them, that there is no other choice, doesn’t mean we can’t hate what we had to do.”
It was a strange relief to hear it so simply put. In a nutshell, she was saying that he did the right thing, but he was still allowed to feel like a complete and utter bastard for having done it. Sometimes there wasn’t just one right way to feel about things like this.
“I have work to do,” Caroline said apologetically, standing up and heading for the door. “But have a think about it. And if you want to talk again, I’m always here to listen.”
It was a strange side to Caroline that he didn’t see very often. But he knew that her concern was real, even if bluntly expressed, and he nodded.
“Okay. And thank you. I’ll keep it in mind.”
Caroline nodded, then left the room, leaving Caleb alone with his thoughts.
“He feels guilty as hell, but also recognises that it was the right decision,” Caroline reported to Andre later that night. He’d been keen to assess how Caleb was reacting to the hiker’s death – though he hadn’t actually killed her, the man had certainly been instrumental in the event – but Andre had been unable to question Caleb himself. Not only would it have been rather inappropriate, but it would also have yielded very little useful information, with Caleb far less likely to open up to him than to one of his own Den mates.
The problem now was that, having been invited into Andre’s room and given him her report, Caroline was strongly suspecting that Andre was having the same conflict of conscience as Caleb. Usually when she spoke to him he was polite, attentive, considering her opinions with a calm patience that she’d come to treasure during her time in Italy. Now, he was sounding almost impatient, avoiding her gaze, focused on the screen of his laptop as he typed rapidly, though she couldn’t see what he was writing.
But what the hell was she supposed to do when a highly trained assassin was having a crisis of conscience? She could hardly do what she’d done for Caleb and give him a heartfelt debrief. He was the one who was supposed to be entirely reasonable and in control, the one who helped other people solve their moral dilemmas, rather than suffering from those dilemmas himself.
“Thank you,” Andre told her, still making notes on his laptop. “I appreciate your help.”
“How much longer is this assessment going to go on?” she asked, leaning against the door frame. Perhaps it was an impertinent question, but she was fishing for ways to continue the conversation, to try and tease out a little more of how Andre was feeling, and since small talk had never been her strong suit, she was left with direct questions on issues of significant importance.
“A few days at most,” Andre replied. “For one thing, I need to return to Italy with Eleanor when she leaves. With the ban on travel lifted, I have little more excuse to stay here without arousing suspicions.” The announcement came with so little warning that it left Caroline feeling rather dismayed. After so many weeks, she’d got rather used to having Andre around. Though, in all that time, they’d still never managed to have a real conversation, a chat just about themselves rather than business around the Den. Neither of them had referred in the slightest way to their past in Italy. “But aside from that, my assessment is basically complete. I’m going to speak to Eleanor tomorrow and tell her that I wholeheartedly recommend Caleb for service to the Council.”
It was said in such a deadpan voice that it took a moment for the words to sink in. “You’re recommending him?” she repeated, not sure why she was surprised at the news. Caleb was a most capable shifter, an excellent fighter, providing a calm and soothing presence at the top end of the ranking, between Tank, who was often more playful mischief maker than 2IC, and Silas, who could strip paint off walls with his glare alone.
“Absolutely,” Andre said, glancing up at her. “He’s calm under pressure, he excels at strategic planning and he thinks outside the square. That’s exactly the sort of man we need.”
“I’m thrilled to hear it. Caleb will be delighted.”
“It’s not all done and dusted yet,” Andre said, and Caroline caught a hint of weariness in his voice, a tone she’d never heard from him before. “All I can do is make my recommendation to the Council. The final decision still lies with them. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he added, turning back to his computer, “I have a few things I need to finish up here.”
It was a dismissal, and not even a particularly polite one. It was far enough from his usual manner that it made Caroline pause, rather than simply leaving him in peace, as she would normally do.
But what could she really say about it? Andre seemed tired and stressed, so clearly the world was caving in? Since coming here, he’d been dealing with one drama after another, first with Dee, then the Noturatii lab, then spending all his time trying to find subtle ways to assess Caleb without arousing suspicion. The life of an assassin was tough. It was no wonder he might get a littl
e worn out at times.
But the nagging feeling that something more serious was going on wouldn’t go away. It was years since she’d been with him in Italy, years that had hardened and refined him, so that the man sitting in front of her now was a far cry from the young assassin-in-training who had sat and talked with her for hours over coffee and sunsets, the one who had taken her soul apart and put it back together again, and who had made her fall hopelessly in love with him.
But then again, she was no longer the lost, lonely girl she had been then. And so she dared to do something that broke all protocols when dealing with an assassin. She waited until he looked up at her, impatience on his face, and said, “We never talk about Italy.” A momentary confusion crossed his face, so she pressed on, before he could dismiss her again. “You’ve been here for weeks. You’ve seen our Den inside and out, you’ve worked and played and fought with us. But we never talk about anything other than business, how best to run the Den, how to deal with the Noturatii. Why don’t we ever talk about the past like old friends?”
Andre looked down, seeming more tired than angry about her sudden interrogation. “We were never friends, Caroline. You were my student. I was your psychologist. That relationship required a certain professional distance.”
“That was fifteen years ago. We’re both adults now. The world is vastly different from the way it was then.”
“I’m an assassin,” Andre continued to protest, irritation colouring his voice. “I travel constantly. I kill people for a living. I exist in the shadows of society – human and shifter – and that kind of life is not at all conducive to making friends.”
